


What If...

by GeekishChic



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Season/Series 03, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Translation From A Personal Fic, a bit of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-11
Updated: 2015-03-12
Packaged: 2018-03-17 11:05:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3526901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeekishChic/pseuds/GeekishChic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Science. The song of our people (citation: DistantStarlight)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Another "Translation" work to help me get back in the swing of things. Let me know if I need to continue :)

It was natural to wonder what it would be like to have sex with another person. Not that Sherlock had no experience. No, a fumbling encounter at sixteen, subsequent more successful encounters when he followed Mycroft's stupid advice about making them want him after his heart was broken that first time, a few years later, a drug-induced lifestyle, and an overall scientific curiosity took care of that particular physical state in almost all of its forms. Sex also factored heavily in many crimes, especially murders, and thinking about it didn't mean you actually wanted to do it.

 

 

Except that he did. He wanted to so badly that he'd had to take up masturbation again for the first time since he was that broken-hearted sixteen year-old. He kept his self-imposed celibacy somewhat intact that way, even contemplating breaking it altogether by calling on the services of The Woman  _just to get it out of his system_  one extremely fitful week during a London heatwave where his attic-dwelling flatmate and best friend pranced about the building in very little, his scent powerful to Sherlock's sensitive nose. There was almost an incident when he brought home ice lollies and had the nerve to eat one in front of him. John had grinned cheekily at him, but it did little to keep Sherlock's eyes off of how the former Army doctor's thin white cotton vest clung to his lean torso. Or how John's scarlet football shorts seemed to conform to every move of his pleasantly muscled thighs. Sherlock was well aware of his own literal and figurative assets, but John... It was obscene in the most glorious way that always left him frustrated and distracted, which all of London, including John would pay for by bearing his moodiness. 

 

Finally he'd let slip that John needed to put something more on and all hell broke loose. He gave Sherlock that unreadable side look, the one that fooled the amateur into thinking he was contemplating something. Sherlock knew he'd already thought of something by the time it came across his face. It also meant Sherlock was in trouble.

 

"Mister nothing but a sheet to visit  _The Queen_ wants me to put 'something more on'?" Apparently the heat had affected both his mind and his modesty because he hooked his thumbs between the waistband of the shorts and his pants and  _stripped them off right there in the sitting room_. Sherlock couldn't speak then, could hardly breathe, could only blink over at the spectacle that was John Watson in pristine Y fronts from where he sat in his arm chair, mouth open in the attempt to do both of those things. As if that wasn't bad enough, John stepped up right beside his left arm. Sherlock's mind was definitely going as he had the craziest thought regarding John's not unsubstantial crotch and hearing the ocean before John put his hands proudly on his hips and asked if his body offended.  _The golden hairs that dusted his legs and thighs looked so soft and he smelled of his soap and clean sweat_ _and just there was the tiniest spot just above the hem of his top where a bit of his lemonade ice lolly had dripped and oh God if he didn't get away this instant he would put his mouth on it, John's declared sexuality be damned and-_ He practically shoved John away getting to his feet, nearly knocking him over in the rush to his room knowing how his face matched the football shorts in colour. He'd heard it in John's voice that he was bloody  _grinning_ when stating that he was offended too, just fyi and laughed some more about it. John had no idea how close he'd come to being ravaged, had a history of  _not being gay_ and there he was, Sherlock's supposed best friend yucking it up.

 

It had taken two rounds with himself to get over that. 

 

He made the decision like he made most of his decisions, within a scientific construct of facts and figures. He made up spreadsheets and filled journals with all sorts of information from past and current things John said and did, to how he smelled and looked at various times. All of the information present and organized still didn't tell him whether or not the man would be open to... having him. He knew he couldn't just have sex with him, that if ever he was to convince him of it being a good idea, it would be for life, at least in John's eyes. Since Sherlock refused to break his heart, it would have to be so for himself as well. In that aspect at least, as he couldn't promise his normal behaviour wouldn't inadvertently hurt his potential lover. John had often even said it, playfully to him, but more seriously to other people when he thought Sherlock couldn't hear or wasn't paying attention, usually whilst in his cups. "He[insert incident here]and it just broke my heart," he would say, usually followed by, "D'you know what I mean?". It would have done the same to Sherlock, supposing he had one, figuratively speaking.

 

He'd set it all up, finally confiding in Lestrade. He had to bounce ideas off of  _someone_  and it couldn't be the main part of the experiment. He told the DI that the final aspect of the experiment would be carried out at their annual Baker Street Christmas party, the first since his return from the dead. It would be perfect. He'd worked out the gift he would give, exactly what he himself would do and say, knew what he would be wearing would compliment John's attire as he would make sure and choose something for him. He would have the mistletoe hung just inside his room, and ask John to come privately help him with something he was normally rubbish at so he wouldn't suspect anything. Like an appropriate gift or how to apologise properly. John was nothing if not wanting to be helpful when it came to Sherlock attempting to behave like a normal human being. Then Sherlock would announce its presence in a playful manner and... Wait! How did John want to be kissed? He'd almost wished he'd paid attention to those wretched rom-coms John had a badly kept secret yen for. He could have slapped himself for not thinking of the simpler solution more quickly. 

 

Although he complained, John was more often amenable to most of his experiments than people would think, infinitely more logical than everyone else seemed to be, having little to no objection to a hair, nail, or blood sample, cheek swab, random odd questions as long as he knew about them. Sherlock only mentioned the ones he didn't know about in an environment about which John wouldn't soon remember that minor detail. It was a good sign that he hadn't yet brought it up, even after moving back to Baker Street. 

 

Sherlock scoured Youtube, finding several videos that were nothing but clips of kisses from movies and shows and transferred them to DVD. Christmas preparation always began early and they would be having a few more people over than usual. Being one of the most motherly(read: guilt inducing) people on the planet, Mrs. Hudson recruited volunteers wherever she could. John really hadn't a chance, as she was still a bit sore about all the time that passed since Sherlock's 'death' in which John made no contact with her. It would have been out of character for Sherlock himself to help beforehand, but completely in character for him to barge in on anything they were doing, render it unimportant, and try to speed it up once they insisted it needed to get done. He inwardly groaned over the fact that he'd have to do inane things like hold containers and fetch things whilst presenting his experiment at a mile a minute and brought the disc to the expected baking excursion.

 

At first he had a hard time speaking. John had on a deep green apron across which frolicked several reindeer with fairy lights decorating their antlers. One of them had a bright red nose. It was insipid. What was not nearly as preposterous was, the rather sinewy forearms extending from the rolled sleeves of his blue gingham button up, though Sherlock's physical reaction to that little bit of skin and the fact that he'd shed his jumper probably was. Especially since it was so warm in the close quarters of Mrs. Hudson's kitchen, that he'd undone his top two buttons in the same way Sherlock wore his shirts, only the crew neck of the white vest he had layered underneath poked out where Sherlock only had skin. It reminded him of the ice lolly near disaster so much that he had to swallow hard and console himself with the fact that John was also wearing a pair of warm yet ridiculous looking black socks that had rubbery bits on the soles for traction. John clutched a bowl and was mixing it with fervor using a long-handled wooden spoon, bits of whatever was going on smeared on his apron.

 

"What do you need, Sherlock?" It annoyed him to no end that even the expecting-to-be-irritated way John pronounced his bloody name with his smooth, soft voice was so lovely to him. He realized he was staring when John raised his eyebrows at him and made up for his initial immobility by promptly barging in, complaining about and explaining how John needed to watch the DVD for an experiment. "Stir this," he commanded, shoving the bowl into Sherlock's arm, plucking the sheer plastic case containing the disc from his fingers and looking at its blank face. "What is it?"

 

"I told you already. It's an experiment." He was stirring mechanically but held deep blue eyes with verdigris ones. He never really understood the world's obsession with eye colour. Well, not until John's eyes, that were the colour of ripe blueberries or sapphires glinting in firelight and reflecting snow. 

 

"Will I or Mrs. Hudson be disturbed by these images?"

 

"No," he answered truthfully.

 

"Okay, let me just get this done then do the egg whites." John traded back again and Sherlock set the disc up in the sitting room as John poured batter and whipped egg whites with cream of tartar to get them to foam up. Mrs. Hudson returned just then. She was always needing to send someone out or go next door herself for some ingredient or other and usually thought it was easier for her to just do it herself as opposed to making sense and sending the younger, sprier generation. She exclaimed in delight upon discovering Sherlock's presence and made him listen to some rambling story about her eldest sister whom she wished lived closer for the holidays and wondering if this year would be her last year being able to travel. All whilst holding a dish into which she was separating... something into. He rolled his eyes repeatedly at John and he'd just smile chastisingly back. 

 

Sherlock couldn't help his return smile, wasn't even aware he was doing it until about the third time it happened, which apparently made him pull a face and John subsequently burst out laughing a little at what must have been an inappropriate time in the story. John apologised profusely and promptly blamed it on Sherlock, as usual. Mrs Hudson forgave him the instant she saw the face for herself. She shook her head with a little titter, not knowing what she was going to do with "you boys" before asking no one in particular where the fresh nutmeg she required was. As if summoned, Lestrade came in with a large brown paper sack, complaining about the holiday hoards. He set it on the table's only clean spot and fished out the jar of whole nutmeg, holding out his acquisition proudly. Mrs. Hudson didn't take it, only handed him a metal grater and a paper towel. He sighed, slipped off his coat, and draped it over the back of the chair he was to sit in.  His help was apparently part of an ongoing apology for his part in Sherlock's downfall. As soon as he finished telling how he was trapped, looking for Sherlock but no one knowing where he was for sure, so he was to join John in the gallows to wait for him to get back in or make his presence known, Sherlock pounced, so to speak. "It can't be all that interesting as you're not begging," Sherlock stated dismissively. "I'm in the middle of something just now, Lestrade. I'll look at your cold case later. John, the experiment-"

 

"Sherlock, no," he said, his eyes dancing(how can eyes _dance?_ ) despite the warning look in them. "I have to finish the egg whites part so I can get these in the oven before they go flat or Mrs. Hudson will have my head." Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and John all chuckled but it didn't mean that John wasn't dead serious. Sherlock's grumbling was only in part so as not to arouse suspicion. Observing John was truly interesting and he was quickly sucked into the distraction. He watched John's expression as he patiently folded in the whipped egg whites and concentrated on pouring out the required amount going by a little mark made deliberately in the flour of the cake tins and crust of the pie ones. Sherlock looked his fill of his arse bent over to pop all four in the lower oven together(they'd gotten Mrs. Hudson a fancy new one last Christmas, the better to feed them up). John then straightened and turned to him, peeling off his asinine reindeer puppet oven mitts with an, "I'm all yours." 

 

What a choice of words. Especially with that bit of pie filling on his cheek that only smeared and became covered with flour when its presence was indicated and he swiped at it, looking around for a reflective surface that wasn't currently covered in ingredients. He followed John into the loo without thinking about it, putting on a show of sucking his teeth and rolling his eyes. But somewhere, between his in-character farce of a reaction and contact with the skin of John's face, he realized that this was why it sometimes really bothered him when his flat mate would be puttering about, especially in the kitchen when Sherlock was doing an experiment. He was distracted by how much he wanted to just bloody  _kiss_  him. Which surprised him. He assumed there'd be stronger feelings(ugh)but for some reason never included the fact that just kissing John would be enough sometimes. He couldn't understand how he left that out of his calculations as John's absent touches were normally soothing when Sherlock wasn't in the midst of a hormonal crisis. However, he justified it quickly. Since he'd already planned to do this, he figured he could move up the date if the opportunity arose. John had mentioned earlier that he had a pub thing that night and would be gone for quite a while after changing clothes and a shower, hoping to at least catch the attention of a few of the women there even if he wasn't actually ready to be with one again after the whole Mary debacle. But, after helping Mrs. Hudson, he didn't much feel like going anywhere but up to his own flat and, eventually, his own bed.

 

It was as if a powerful magnet was activated by his touch. John remained unsuspicious until the the last moment, even straining his face up a bit and looking away so Sherlock could wipe the smudge off properly. As if this was something just done with them, like Sherlock following him into the bathroom.  Sherlock's rubbing at the spot with his thumb was basically just for show as the applied kiss, with a hint of tongue actually cleaned it. John's eyes went wide as he continued to look toward the wall, but he didn't pull away or push him back or otherwise reject him yet. Only whispered half of his name in surprise as he moved a kiss to the left corner of his mouth, then John's eyes slipped closed. That was his cue. 

 

To Sherlock's utter delight, John was actually returning the volley, reaching up to wrap his skilled doctor's hands loosely around the base of Sherlock's skull as he tried his best to keep his on John's face or hips so as not to scare him into thinking something more was going to immediately happen. Just as he was figuring that this was all he needed ever, John sighed contentedly, the initial tension draining from his compact frame, and melted into his arms, before doing some sort of... thing... with his tongue, and Sherlock was almost instantly erect. He tried his best not to actually devour John, though he wasn't sure how well he was doing, as the tension returned in a slightly different form, the need to get him somewhere, anywhere horizontal, or at least able to straddle him in some way. He had a flash of a fantasy of John doing so in Sherlock's chair, that (he imagined) glorious chest dripping with sweat as he pounded up into him, attempting to clean it with his mouth. The thought made him groan and lift John nearly onto the sink.

 

"Wait! Sherlock please," He stopped immediately, unable to actually let go yet, though he set him more stably on his feet again. John's face was a mixture of confusion, fear, and, dare he say elation, with an undertone of pure desire. Sherlock understood his trepidation, knew the basis of everything he saw there.

 

"Sorry," he said. "I just... sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you."

 

"I'm not frightened," he said, holding his gaze. Sherlock raised his eyebrows knowingly. "Okay a bit," he corrected himself. "It's just that... where did this all come from?" A realization seemed to dawn on him then and John shoved him back just hard enough to put space between them.

 

"What? Wait! No! No this isn't part of the experiment." But John was already convinced it was. Also Sherlock was lying a bit, but only because he was already upset and wouldn't have listened to the logical explanation until calming anyway.

 

"I can't  _believe_ \- On second thought, I can! Sherlock you can't just 'Delete' what I tell you about how to behave, at least toward us." Sherlock winced inwardly at the collective word. He was usually part of that 'us' unless it was in a situation like this. Maybe he did rush the kiss, but John was so- The virtual pain in John's words snapped him back to the moment. He wasn't one to get upset by someone's hardships, caused them many times himself, but John's heart taking yet another battering from him was not on. "You can't do this, Sherlock! You can't use peoples' emotions this way."

 

"John, I-"

 

"Said you were sorry, I know." John sighed deeply and ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it a bit, as he'd been keeping it a little longer. Apparently women enjoyed it. Sherlock sure did. "You may even mean it because apparently, you have no idea what you did wrong." The words brought Sherlock back to harsh reality. 

 

"If you just let me-" It was worse that John was speaking to him gently rather than shouting, as if talking to a child. In truth, that's what he felt like. He'd been helpless around him before, but, even on that Summer day, it wasn't as utterly desperate as it was now. John wouldn't even look at him anymore, pretending to find the wall, the floor, anything more interesting.

 

"No. Just... just go."

 

"Just let me-"

 

"Please."

 

He couldn't think of anything to do or say, his mind sheathed in a fog of emotion. This is why he hated caring! He swore under his breath and departed abruptly, not slamming the door even though he really wanted to, as it would affect the pies. He took his frustrations out on his own bedroom door, however, slamming it repeatedly then flopping onto his bed to rub his eyes. That didn't go well. He bloody  _had_  him! He was definitely kissing back and tasted like baking ingredients and cherry lip balm and- He immediately stopped cataloging and, on top of everything, his fingers came away wet. No! No he refused to cry. He hadn't genuinely cried since the roof at St. Bart's. He, of course, was attempting to lie to himself, as there were many times when he was away from Baker Street, where the only way he could _stop_ crying in a shoddy room somewhere in the middle of nowhere, utterly alone, was to access voicemails John left on his old phone. 

 

With a forlorn sigh, he moved to the sofa. Sentiment was exhausting and he had a hard time believing it was all worth it. When he posed the question to himself, however, the resounding 'Yes' nearly deafened him as it echoed through the hallowed halls of his mind palace. But there wasn't yet a solution to his current problem on its heels and that frustrated him to no end as he continued to plumb his brain's structural depths.

 

An undetermined amount of time later, there were footsteps on the stairs. 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to write smut but it came out less "filth" and more "verbal diabetes".
> 
> Apologies.

 

 

 

Sherlock explained the disaster when Lestrade was quite finished with his 'I told you so'. He was being less useful than usual at first, explaining to him that only he could fix it. But then he said that the fact of John being so upset confirmed that he loved him, too. Then he mumbled something off-hand about the fact that John'd probably make the first move because he was so bloody good and Sherlock almost didn't deserve it but you can't help who you fancy. Not really. Sherlock was still a bit depressed about the way things had gone but that at least gave him a little spark of hope. John loved him. Was that what this was? Lestrade announced he was off home to shower, making it pretty clear he was done advising by saying he needed the loo first. But Sherlock was already exploring his mind palace all through the long-winded declaration, collating data and ignoring the plea that he eat something. Mrs. Hudson had started a stew that morning which John had also helped with apparently because, though he'd washed his hands thoroughly several times, Sherlock tasted the tiniest trace of fresh garlic, onions, and dill lingering where it had splashed his face a little bit when he smashed, sliced and diced. He would be having some of that when John coaxed him to eat.

 

He heard John's footsteps on the stairs and his entrance through the kitchen door, forcing himself to stay perfectly still with his eyes closed. He even heard his sigh of what must have been relief at not seeing him yet. Lestrade came out of the bathroom and the two mates exchanged words about the samples he'd brought up at Mrs. Hudson's request as well as the circumstances of their escape from beneath her velvet whip. John's voice sounded terribly sad beneath the forced positivity and it made Sherlock angrier that it affected him so much. Lestrade said nothing about his presence yet until John bloody  _asked if_  Sherlock _was okay!_  

 

"Unbelievable," The detective inspector had mused, Sherlock able to picture the little head shake that always accompanied such statements.

 

"What?" John queried, edged with confusion. Lestrade didn't answer at first, only steered him through the sliding door between the sitting room and the kitchen. He heard John's breath catch at the sight of him and didn't care for that either, as it was most likely in a negative way, not at all the same as when he first touched his lips to his endearing face. Now Sherlock had to fight not to groan as well as stay still.

 

"As you can see, he's fine," Lestrade stated. But not really, because he's just covering up what he's really feeling in this situation by being a complete twat, per usual. Seriously, Sherlock. You need to fix this. Immediately." With that, Lestrade grabbed something additional from off the tray, bid farewell to both of them, and departed. 

 

John stood there another full minute. Sherlock could feel those eyes boring into him from there and wanted to meet them disinterestedly. He knew if he did, however, all bets would be off instead, so he remained where he was until John sighed again and turned to leave. Which he wasn't supposed to do. John was supposed to come to him, or at least go sit in his armchair and wait for him. But he didn't this time. John left, and it physically hurt enough for him to leap off the couch and yank open the sitting room door calling his name. John stopped his plodding ascent but didn't turn to face him.

 

"Come back in here," Sherlock said, not meaning for it to sound like so much of a command. He was toting his jumper, his sleeves still rolled up, jeans covered in ingredients. He looked like that suburban dad who, at first glance, made those who didn't know what to look for wonder how he had seven kids with his supermodel wife. It was unreasonably attractive.  

 

"Say whatever it is you have to say, Sherlock. I need a wash-"

 

"Please." With yet another great, heaving sigh, he returned, avoiding looking into Sherlock's face. Sherlock shut the door behind him and locked it before leaning against it, watching John look out of the sitting room's right hand window. "I... I don't know how else to do things," he admitted. John turned at that but still didn't look at him. "I need data, information, concrete facts."

 

"Then go do a study at a university's psychology department." John glanced at him momentarily, then back at the mirror above the fireplace. "It's like with weapons. The ones who have the least knowledge about them are most likely to hurt people." Perfect analogy, of course. "Germany is still tops in the field of psychology," John continued, heading toward the kitchen, presumably to escape that way. "I assume that's one of the fourteen languages you speak. If not, you could probably learn it in an hour-" Sherlock of course blocked John's path. In as much of a non-threatening manner as possible.

 

"You agreed."

 

"Not to have my heart fucked with, Sherlock. I can't... Look I just need a bit of time, okay? It's way too awkward."

 

"But... you return my feelings." John finally did look at him then and he almost wished he didn't.

 

"Return?" Did he not actually know? How could he  _not_?

 

"Of course! Why would I kiss you otherwise?"

 

"Poor Janine," John reminded him, crossing his arms and looking away but not moving to leave at least.

 

"I learned my lesson from that," he protested.

 

"Look, I don't know what you're doing, Sherlock," he said finally, dropping his arms as a symbol of doing so with his guard. "I have no idea what your end game is. But then, I'm not to know the nature of the experiment. Look," John actually lay both hands on Sherlock's arms that he'd crossed in a mirroring fashion, "The experimentation is supposed to take place within the confines of the established relationship. The relationship itself isn't supposed to be the experiment. Not at this point." Sherlock's arms itched to go around him but he held them fast to his chest. "For instance, you're not one to say, 'hey let's go have sex to see if there's anything there'." He couldn't help a tiny smirk, at which John narrowed his eyes.

 

"I'm not?"

 

"Not initially, no. It's more in character within the parameters of an established relationship for you. At least the way you are now." John continued to surprise and fascinate him, but even Sherlock, with his limited sentimental capabilities, was positive trying to kiss him right now would be wrong. No matter how much he craved it. "I just... this can't be..." John dropped his hands again and sighed with exasperation. Sherlock dropped his own, then pushed them into his pockets instead. Must not touch until welcome.

 

"It isn't," he confirmed.

 

"But what exactly  _is_  it?" he asked walking around to put the table between them. How did John read him that well without even being aware of it? The doctor sat in the chair there, his back to the landing door, and briefly eyed an experiment.

 

"I..." Sherlock closed his mouth and breathed out through his nose, a bit frustrated at his poor emotional navigation.

 

"Just no bullshit, Sherlock. Okay? Just say words and don't worry about how they sound."

 

"How am I supposed to do that when I'm often chastised for not saying things properly?"

 

"Because you do it anyway. Repeatedly. Though you  _are_  doing much better." Sherlock noticed that, more often, John always threw in a kind word. "I'm just... I'm just giving you permission now. And it's on a case by case basis, so don't think this is how you're to behave all the time." They looked at each other for a long moment before Sherlock finally took the seat opposite, finding a bit of comfort in clearing the area between them of his work as he began speaking, keeping one eye on John's lovely, healing hands as they fiddled with the grain of the wood and stealing glances at Sherlock's face.

 

"Alright." Nothing else for it, then. "I want to be with you. For as long as you'll have me. I don't care about marriage or children or anything else you may want as long as I get to be yours and you get to be mine." John, blinked at him, apparently stunned. He took the silence as an opportunity to barrel on. "But I also know that I will repeatedly hurt and neglect you no matter how hard I try. I've wanted you  _literally_  to distraction for years now. I crave your happiness, your approval and attention, but I hurt you anyway, and that... bothers me." He pushed himself back up to his feet to pace the kitchen and part of the short corridor that lead to his bedroom once the area was cleared. "Logic dictates to go back to how I was before, but then everyone will suffer, I believe, unnecessarily. The worst bit, is not that everyone will pay for my cutting off the distraction that is my feelings for you. Some would actually benefit from my being able to remove myself further than ever from what I suppose you'd call empathy. No, the worst thing is that I would be without you and I'm too damned selfish for that." John took in and released a deep breath.

 

"Right. So there's that. Cards on the table," he murmured.  

 

"Oh, and I haven't wanted to have sex with someone this badly since I was sixteen." He saw John freeze in his peripheral, eyes wide, hands gripping the table. He was terrified and... interested. Sherlock slowly approached him. "I had a plan, you see. I would never push you to go any further than you absolutely wanted, for however long you needed, but I was willing to push aside everything I think about  _Sentiment_  to fit your base parameters for it."

 

"What... erm..." John's gaze went past the table top to the worktop by their sink as Sherlock stood expectantly at his left elbow. He cleared his throat, then started again. "What was the plan?"

 

"Christmas. I was going to have a photo taken including everyone and print it out immediately on photo paper, then gift you a frame in which to put it." John's eyes went contemplative, his lovely thin were lips wet, then wet again by his tongue, but Sherlock couldn't stop talking, despite not knowing whether or not it was a good thing. He knew the present would be perfect but now the data was all jumbled, the timeline off. "Then, I planned to lure you under the mistletoe under perfectly believable false pretenses and... reveal my feelings then." John bolted to his feet, nearly knocking the chair over but didn't face him yet.

 

"But... why did it have to be... that way? Why couldn't you just...?"

 

"Too many parameters. I needed to know a general average success rate to be able to calculate-" John turned to him then, his look stopping words as if he'd put a hand over Sherlock's mouth. But he was smiling slightly despite the unreadability of the rest of his expression.

 

"I don't know why I even asked," he said fondly, so low it was nearly a whisper. "I know you. I know how you are. I know how you operate and what you need. The only thing I ever get confused about is what you  _want_." It was the truth. Sometimes John would chatter endlessly around him, sometimes he was silent. Sometimes he would stay across the room, and other times, he would make a concerted effort to pass close by as he moved about, and touch Sherlock lightly on the way. John would get him to eat even during a case now and, as always, inadvertently give him great ideas, though lately they were more often related to how to make him smile, usually by what he had to do to make others more comfortable, sometimes by engaging in their special brand of gallows humour.

 

"I believe, however, I've just made that clear."

 

"You have," he agreed. John looked off to the left as he did when he was thinking hard about what to say next. Those glorious eyes came back to rest on Sherlock's. "I'm sorry," he said.

 

"For what?"

 

"Ruining your experiment. It was a perfect plan. It just... would have been better if it was just that."

 

"Just what?" Sherlock was asking way too many simple questions. His head was a mess of tangled hopes and doubts and he was practically choking on his pounding heart. How could John not see everything? Sherlock was a blazing beacon of want and inadequacy. It was bordering on pathetic. 

 

"Just a plan to tell me you... How you feel."

 

"Then call it a plan. A well thought out plan. With charts. And-and stimuli." Then John laughed and it was miraculous and Sherlock wanted nothing more than to grab him tightly and kiss him until suddenly the kitchen became the bedroom. But John still hadn't actually said 'Yes'. He had to agree out loud. John blinked up at him until he was certain he'd have to either kiss him anyway or flee the flat. Mercifully, John looked away, though the thoughtful expression didn't much help with the wanting to kiss him bit.

 

"Wait, what was on that DVD?"

 

"Kisses."

 

"What?" John's frown was annoyingly adorable.

 

"Kissing scenes from all of those terrible films you and Mrs. Hudson watch. I was going to determine your response to different techniques so I could determine how best to-" But then John was kissing  _him_ , pushed up on the balls of his socked feet, wrapping his arms around his neck, enveloping him in everything that was 'John' as far as was possible without being inside him. And that thought immediately caused the latch Sherlock had used to lock away the part about John being so incredibly arousing so that he could have a normal conversation with him, to break spectacularly, the desire bursting free and running rampant with little he could do to stop it, only confine it to a large room. Barely.

 

Because he did get John on the table then, on his back, legs wrapped around his waist and Sherlock almost lost it, he was so hard. He bent over John, not putting his full weight down, tethering himself to just this side of ravaging him by the uncomfortable pressure of the jeans into the flesh of his belly. Because John was making sounds as he tested out oral patterns on his throat, and when he would kiss him again, John would do that tongue thing, until he copied the action causing ever better sounds. It took Sherlock a full minute to realize his own contribution to the noises and he pushed himself upright, but gently, and bearing John's legs still around him, so as not to make John think he was changing his mind. John was flushed and shiny-eyed, shirt partially unbuttoned and messily pushed up, to reveal a glorious belly Sherlock had to tear his eyes from in order to form a coherent sentence.

 

"I... I want..." Which apparently still didn't work.

 

"It's okay, Sherlock," John quirked a tiny smile and he almost dove back on him again. Instead he sat in the chair John had previously occupied and pulled him onto his lap. He needed a moment to rein in that flash of fantasy he'd had earlier about this very position, which seemed a little easier when John held his head to his chest and he could hear his racing heart mirroring his. John wanted him, too, but he  _still_  hadn't _said_ it. He needed to hear it. He decided to let his heart lead him further for a split second as it hadn't yet gone horribly wrong when he did it before.

 

"I love you," he said quietly, almost under his breath. John stiffened a moment, causing him to do so involuntarily in response, but he never let go, and relaxed almost immediately.

 

"I love you, too." Then they were kissing again, but sweetly, in an unhurried fashion. Sherlock still wanted him  _rightfuckingnow_  , but he had to let John set the pace if he didn't want to mess this up right at the start. This was too precious. John was too precious.

 

"I want to see you," he whispered. 

 

"I..." Right. He wasn't used to being with a man, hadn't been with anyone in a while. He always covered the result of what had brought him home, brought him into Sherlock's life. Hating that he'd been hurt and thanking whomever had hurt him was a constant battle in Sherlock's heart.

 

"You're perfect," Sherlock blurted, heart running away with his mouth. "Your scars, your skin, your mind... you... are unfathomably beautiful." He made sure to have John's eyes as he spoke these absolute truths.

 

"But-" 

 

"And strong," he stated with a kiss. "And brave." Another kiss. "And kind." Another. "And clever." The last one was long, drawn out over minutes. "I want to see," he said again. "Please."

 

"I... Alright," he said sounding almost defeated, which broke Sherlock's heart a little. It was, however, to be expected. "Alright," he said again, steeling himself.

 

"My bedroom is closest, but if you feel more comfortable-"

 

"I'll be the same amount of comfortable either way," he said truthfully. It didn't exactly fill Sherlock with confidence but he went with it, unable to walk properly with what was going on in his trousers at the prospect. His greatest comfort at the moment was John's matching state.

 

As if to cement his acquiescence, John took the lead, grabbing his hand and walking ahead of him toward his bed. John was taking him to bed. The thought was a bit staggering, but at least they were already there when they fell onto it. The fire had sufficiently warmed the area and he kissed John gently in the combined dim light of it and his bedside lamp. Sherlock undid John's jeans, gently tugging them off and leaving his pants for the moment. He also left the vest, determined to live out at least part of his fantasy of putting his mouth there, the side of his face, then his mouth again on John's now rather distended pants. It was so much better when John was erect. John wanting him was lovely to think about in the abstract, but this physical representation was almost more than Sherlock could wrap his mind around. 

 

The second part would have to wait a while, however. But he found the remembered spot, this vest a bit short so that a sliver of smooth skin taunted him from below the hem, and lay a rather sloppy open-mouthed kiss there, imagining he tasted lemon and sugar mixed with the glorious taste of John. John's giggled question turned into a soft moan when Sherlock pushed it up more and ran the flat of his tongue across the width of his abdomen. He had to pull back again, lest he move too quickly. He recalled slightly the tinge of regret after some hurried encounter. The drugs usually took care of that, however, he no longer had that option. He was pretty sure all bets would be off if he used again and he wasn't about to let that happen. Besides, it wasn't part of the experiment. Of course it would be interesting to see how the experience could be altered by-

 

Sherlock hit a particularly tasty patch of skin as he trailed kisses over a combination of material and displayed flesh that derailed that. Without yet touching any important bits, he got back to John's mouth, his cunning, dexterous mouth. He sat up, straddling John's thighs, still not taking off John's top, but unable to resist running his hands over anything he could reach, almost disbelieving he was now allowed to do so. He resolutely avoided the more distracting areas. John needed to be as present as possible for this part of information exchange.

 

"Alright?" Sherlock asked quietly. John drew in a deep breath and released it with his answer.

 

"Good. Yeah. Fine. I'm good." It didn't sound promising. But for the persistent erection, Sherlock would have stopped. The kissing could be enough for now. Fortunately, Sherlock could briefly focus John's building tension in a different, more pleasurable direction by brushing the flat of his palm just once over the head of John's cock. His own throbbed sympathetically, but he had to get back to the task at hand. 

 

"I understand this is the sort of thing couples usually discuss," Sherlock said turning his manual exploration into a light massage. "How far you want to go, what you'd like to try and the like."

 

"Not much I can tell you that I haven't yet or you haven't already deduced or found out other ways." John's little smile made Sherlock's belly quiver, but he had to get on with this so he could get off with John.

 

"Sometimes the information is compromised," he admitted, frowning. John propped himself up on his elbows then reached a hand up to smooth his thumb over the creases in between Sherlock's eyes. The action earned him first a puzzled, then an insanely affectionate look.

 

"I think we should play it by ear."

 

"But John, the experiment-"

 

"Sod the experiment. Or figure out what you want to know in other ways. I'll let you know when you get to something I'm not really up for. For instance, I'm not really... sure about the, you know...,"

 

"Penetrative bit?" John's relief was his relief, though the former still turned a lovely shade of pink all the way down into the neck of his vest. "I wasn't planning on that just now anyway, though I was thinking that I would receive at first so that you could transition more easily. I have a few detailed charts on preparation you may find useful-" And he was being kissed within an inch of his life again. 

 

He filed away the information that John's laughter somehow tasted like honey.

 

Things grew increasingly heated and hard and Sherlock decided that he hadn't yet encountered anything better in his life than a romantically and sexually aroused John Watson. This was the John Watson all those women saw, all at once the clever predator and elusive pray. While he understood it before, it was only on a technical level. He clinically compartmentalized their behaviour, retaining information useful to The Work as well as figuring out ways to make sure they didn't hurt John's feelings/went away as soon as they became inconvenient. John probably would have called it jealousy, and it probably was, in its own way. To be fair, those women didn't exactly stand a chance against the duplexity that was John Hamish Watson. As detached as Sherlock was from all things sentimental, even he wasn't immune to John's subtly devious charms.   

 

John used his whole body to, well, make love. That was what they were doing, wasn't it? Sherlock noted how John seemed to be everywhere at once, but not in an unpleasant way like those Sherlock had dealt with in the past, all grabbing hands and fumbling. No, John... blanketed Sherlock, no matter that he was underneath. It was as if Sherlock was a biscuit, dunked in John tea, absorbing him through every pore until he could no longer hold his integrity. It was almost literal as Sherlock emptied himself into John's mouth with embarrassingly few passes with his tongue.

 

Sherlock abruptly noticed, as John kissed him through the aftershocks, that he was somehow completely nude. It shouldn't have surprised him as it did, but he remembered nothing of it happening, only the rather embarrassing noises John pulled from him by applying pressure and/or moisture to certain seemingly non-erogenous parts of his body. Some of those parts had seemed inert, as if they were underwater, impossible to use in building a fire. But John was a completely different chemical mix than anyone else. It was like they were calcium flares, able to ignite him without any lasting effect. John was lava, burning at a temperature so high that everything around him was brought up to his level, deformed and remade layer by layer into something richer.  

 

John had taken his underwear off but the vest remained and Sherlock was a bit sorry for it. He didn't know if he was more expressive now or if John could just read him better now that they had become involved in yet another way, because John explained after looking down at him for a moment(touching his face in the gentlest manner making Sherlock virtually purr inwardly).

 

"It would have probably distracted you," he said simply. 

 

"Mm." Sherlock's utterance was not only an agreement, it was an acknowledgement of John's overwhelming wisdom. He let the hand that wasn't currently around John travel over his cotton-sheathed torso and wander toward the bare bits, John undulating under his touch in the most fascinating way. He would get to the scar in a moment. Contrary to popular belief, he could be patient when the situation called for it. How did anyone expect him to be able to conduct experiments without patience? Science was mostly waiting for something to happen when you introduced or removed one element from another. Sherlock had a burning question.

 

"You say you're not gay but that surely wasn't the first time you've done that," he stated. The fellatio had been rather devastating for someone who was a self-proclaimed (rather shouty) heterosexual.

 

"I'm not and it isn't." Sherlock stopped his hand's descent and frowned at the ceiling.

 

"What?"

 

"It's a different world out there in a desert wasteland of a war zone. There were extremely few women and they were in separate areas most of the time. The number was halved by the dead and those that got up the duff simply because we didn't really have the luxury of birth control and everyone was lonely and upset." It was difficult for Sherlock to be offended when it was something associated with such a painful time in John's life, but he was nothing if not clever and managed it just fine. Especially when John continued with a casual sniff, "No, I'm not gay. I don't even consider myself bisexual because even when doing that in Afghanistan, I had to picture women." 

 

"Women don't have penises, John," Sherlock snapped. "What did you do then?"

 

"Shut my eyes and thought of England." Sherlock scoffed at that and removed his arm from around John so he could cross them with proper petulance. "Come on, love. Don't be like that." The affection in his voice (Sherlock outright  _refused_  to look into those silvered navy depths when he was trying so hard to be angry with him) combined with the term of endearment (which made a surprisingly warm spot in his chest, a bit to the left of his sternum) chipped away at his resolve. This was ludicrous, bringing to mind a glowing green rock that weakened that alien in the silly blue and red uniform with the cape. That helped him recover at least a bit of his ire. John contaminating the pristine waters of his intellect with popular drivel such as that. "Honestly almost nobody is a firmly a zero or a six on the Kinsey scale."

 

"I'm a four," Sherlock mentioned absently, then frowned deeper as he couldn't imagine why he'd even say anything.

 

"See?"

 

"Then how do you identify?" How did he classify himself? What additional label could Sherlock affix to him to make him easier to process, to read? 

 

"How do  _you_  identify?"

 

"Bisexual with more of a propensity toward men. I told you, I'm a four, do keep up. If you don't find men sexually attractive at all, how do you explain this?" He grasped John's cock, pulling a distracting little moan from him. Sherlock's indignation took a very short holiday when confronted with the heft and circumference of it, as if it was formed specifically to be handled by him. "Because you certainly are aroused by the sight of me." John thought about it for an endless moment.

 

"Sherlocksexual," he finally answered. 

 

"That's ridiculous," Sherlock snapped, still trying to hold on to that last, tiniest bit of hurt for as long as possible. "What the hell does that even mean?" John, however, remained unaffected by his sour tone, his smile still evident in his voice. That, mixed with just the memory of actually seeing it as well as his eyes caused the negativity to disperse completely. Sherlock was now angry that he was no longer angry. An orgasm from John apparently drained all sense.

 

"It means," John said slowly, "you're the only one in the world. I invented the identity." Sherlock had to look at him then. They gazed at each other for a moment then dissolved into mirth before they started kissing again. Sherlock supposed he shouldn't have been surprised that this was exactly like the rest of their relationship, all difficult and strange and adrenaline rushes.

 

And love.

 

Love had always been there despite the form it took at any given moment. This revelation caused Sherlock to blank out for an unknown amount of time. There was nothing else in the world, in the universe but John, the sounds he made, the feel of his skin, how he moved when he was touched in different places. Sherlock made sure that John was in such a state that he didn't even notice stripping himself of his vest.

 

And wasn't this a beautiful development?

 

John's chest wasn't solid muscle anymore, but his shoulders were broad and the whole thing screamed (at least to Sherlock) hidden strength. It gave him more amusement than anyone could realize picturing John taking out that cabbie whilst wearing a cuddly oatmeal jumper with a fresh hair cut. Which brought him to the scar. Sherlock's mind couldn't help the standard deductions ( _Exit wound. High caliber sniper rifle. from a great distance_ ). It was a pink divot about the size of his thumb pad, surrounded by a labyrinth of tendrils, radiating outward like some sort of crystal formation. He knew John didn't think so at the time but it was a miracle no bone fragments pierced his heart. 

 

Beneath him, John's extreme arousal was beginning to fade into anxiety. He wouldn't meet Sherlock's eyes for very long, and his breathing was calming. That was until Sherlock began peppering the wound with soft, reverent kisses. At first, John's breathing had stopped altogether, then began increasing in depth and speed, interspersed with words and sounds as Sherlock traced his tongue along it, following the cobbled pathways to his neck, down over his nipple. Sherlock was attempting to compare the sensitivity of the two pebbled peaks, to see if the left was more or less sensitive due to the injury, but got sidetracked by how loud John cried out no matter which one he gave attention to. When it was both at once with dampened fingertips so Sherlock could watch his face in the throws of ecstasy, Sherlock was erect again, John grinding up against him threatening to come.

 

Sherlock slowed everything, languidly kissing him and caressing him back once more to a calmer state. He wanted to taste him when he reached his peak and told him so, earning himself a delicious swear and a filthy command with John's fingers tangled in his hair tugging hard enough to stay just barely in the pleasure zone. Ever the caregiver, John released his hair when he got close again, explaining breathlessly that he didn't want to tear it out by accident. Sherlock didn't say anything as his mouth was otherwise occupied. 

 

Without warning, Sherlock wet his fingertips in the extra saliva he was purposely producing and began working John's nipples once again. The effect was almost instant.

 

Three thrusts that nearly choked him and a fervent shout of, " _Oh! Fuck! Sherlock!_ " accompanied the filling of his mouth. He stopped the sucking and just lapped at it after swallowing until John began weakly tugging on whatever he could reach of him, panting for him to rejoin him at the head of the bed. "I'd be jealous that you're so brilliant at everything, if I wasn't so satisfied," he mentioned once they'd thrown the duvet over themselves from the waist down. He'd noticed Sherlock's prodigal erection and, giver that he was, began sluggishly stroking it with small kisses to Sherlock's lips and face. "You're brave as well," he said.

 

"How do you mean?" Damn his inquisitive mind sometimes. He wanted to enjoy what John was doing but had to engage.

 

"Revealing how you feel."

 

"Oh, John," double meaning there, "That's not bravery. Bravery is doing what needs to be done in order to achieve a goal despite fear. I simply don't think to be afraid because it's a simple case of figuring out how to acquire what I desire."

 

"You were afraid I would reject you."

 

"I admit the whole not gay thing was a slight deterrent, but I was confident that-"

 

"Sherlock." The warning tone accompanied by the pause in John's stroking was almost enough to have him confessing to things that had naught to do with the conversation if he'd just please  _get back to it_.

 

"Alright I was scared to death. Is that what you want to hear?"

 

"Not that you were scared. Of course not," John said soothingly, thankfully returning to fondling Sherlock. "Just the truth. I want to hear the truth."

 

"You've been eating the tinned pineapples meant for Mrs. Hudson's cake," Sherlock blurted with a sigh and a low groan. John didn't stop, but he did prop the side of his head on his right palm in order to look down at Sherlock with a lazily puzzled expression. Sherlock knew he wanted more information but he'd be damned if he was going to just give it up so easily. He was still Sherlock Holmes. Instead, he reached into the beside table closest to him and extracted a bottle of lubricant filled to approximately the half-way mark. He applied it to the proper area and settled back to enjoy John touching him where, less than twenty-four hours before, he was only imagining it as he did it himself. That thought caused him to promptly open his eyes to confirm he wasn't still fantasizing it, and was satisfied enough to shut them again after seeing John was still there.

 

"And how, pray tell, could you tell that whilst I was naked?"

 

"Semen."

 

"What?"

 

"I did a little experiment in university where I had applicants for a study I was doing on what ingesting certain things would do to the flavour, texture and smell of semen. So I had these blokes over to my dormitory room and-"

 

John was good at kissing him in order to shut him up. Sherlock wondered if he'd ever do that at a crime scene when he thought he was being too rude. He made a mental note to test it one day, the last coherent thought before he lost himself once again in John.  

 

 


End file.
